


The Hospital Affair

by Ingu



Series: The Man From Tumblr [6]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Affection, Ambiguous Relationships, Deception, Fluff, Hospitalization, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Prompt Fill, Translation Available, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 17:35:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4970083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ingu/pseuds/Ingu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The natural next step after Napoleon figured out that he was neither dead nor captured, had been for him to open his eyes. Which was of course the exact moment Illya ruined all of Napoleon’s plans by speaking.</p><p>“You said he’d be awake by now."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hospital Affair

**Author's Note:**

> [Anonymous](http://ingu.tumblr.com/post/130873356728/napoleon-gets-shot-illya-freaks-out-and-brings): Napoleon gets shot. Illya freaks out and brings him at the hospital. It's not a bad wound but when Illya comes to his room to visit him, Napoleon uses his acting skills and...
> 
> Chinese translation available [here](http://www.movietvslash.com/thread-184641-1-1.html) (registration needed).

In Napoleon’s defence, he had been perfectly prepared to open his eyes.

Returning to consciousness after being heavily drugged would never be something he could describe as ‘pleasant’, but there was a strong distinction between waking up in a soft, warm hospital bed and being restrained to a chair or a wall or an examination table. This time, the faint smell of antiseptic and the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor told him he was probably somewhere ‘safe’, as did the warm weight of blankets covering him and the comfy pillow beneath his head.

There was a faint throb in his gut, a dull pain in his head, and his muddled brain informed him the only reason he was not squirming in agony was because of even more drugs in his system he’ll never be able to name. The memory of gunshots floated to the front of his mind, and Napoleon faintly remembered Illya’s panicked voice as he dragged him through the alleyways of Prague. He must have passed out at some stage from blood loss, because he remembered none of what came after.

The natural next step after Napoleon figured out that he was neither dead nor captured, had been for him to open his eyes. Which was of course the exact moment Illya ruined all of Napoleon’s plans by speaking.

“You said he’d be awake by now.”

“We can only estimate how long it will take for Mr. Solo’s system to process the drugs we’ve administered, Mr. Kuryakin,” said an unfamiliar voice. “Give it a few more hours, I’m sure he’ll be with us soon.”

Only then, did Napoleon realise that A: he was not alone, and B: there were at least two people in the room with him. His partner sitting at his bedside, and a doctor, standing at the foot of the bed. There was the sound of pen scratching against paper, and then a clatter as something heavy like a clipboard was being reattached to his bed.

Footsteps, then the squeak and click of a door being opened and then shut. The room returned to silence. Curious how Illya might react, Napoleon kept his breathing even, and didn’t open his eyes. He waited.

And waited.

Napoleon was starting to drift off when the sound of shifting and rustling fabric pulled his consciousness back from the brink. A tiny part of his covers was lifted near his hip, and a rush of cold struck against his skin. Illya’s hand, warm and giant, found his, and grasped Napoleon’s hand tightly. Then, a few seconds later, a second hand joined the first, and Napoleon’s fingers were well and truly trapped.

Something warm tickled at Napoleon’s heart, and he had to fight down the urge to give Illya’s hand a teasing, or perhaps reassuring, squeeze.

Instead, Napoleon fell asleep.

-

The second time Napoleon woke up, it was night.

He opened his eyes by reflex, and stared confusedly up into the dark ceiling before he realised that time had passed. He couldn’t feel his arm anymore, and his mattress was also awkwardly tilted in one direction. Napoleon cast his gaze downward, and found Illya asleep and curled over his bed, a tiny unhappy frown on his face. One of the Russian’s arms was hidden beneath Napoleon’s blankets, and Napoleon could vaguely detect the feeling of Illya’s fingers, entwined with his.

A grin pulled at Napoleon lips. The sight of Illya so vulnerable was doing terrible things to Napoleon’s heart. He wanted to save his limb from Illya’s clutches, he also wanted to kiss Illya awake (though the logistics of that would be, admittedly, impossible). He also maybe wanted brush back Illya’s hair from what it had fallen over his face (another impossible task). But that would have meant waking him first.

Napoleon stared a while longer, a stupid lovesick grin on his face, and fell back asleep.

-

The third time Napoleon woke up, his hand was free, and there was someone murmuring beside him. Napoleon didn’t open his eyes, and instead strained his ears to hear what was being said. It took him a moment before he realised it was Illya talking in Russian.

“Stupid American.”

The first words were a violent blow to Napoleon’s ego. So he had gotten went and gotten himself shot, it was hardly his fault their contact had suddenly turned on them.

There was a moment of silence, and then Illya spoke again.

“Why won’t you wake up?”

Well, in Napoleon’s defence, he had woken several times already; he’d even opened his eyes at several stages. It was also not his fault that Illya had never witnessed it. In theory, Napoleon could even open his eyes right now. But he wanted Illya to keep talking.

More silence, and the covers near Napoleon’s hand shifted. Illya’s hands were in his again, toying with Napoleon’s long fingers. Napoleon kept his hand limp, and didn’t respond.

“Silly, weak American.”

That was petty and mean. Illya had better have been glad that no one else could hear him. Not that they were anywhere near the United States, if they were, Napoleon wouldn’t have known.

Illya fiddled with Napoleon’s fingers some more, before he stilled. Then, Illya shifted his hold into a tight grip, and rubbed softly at the back of Napoleon’s hand with his thumb.

“Wake up, Cowboy.”

Illya’s words were quiet, but his voice was a broken, jagged thing that tore straight through Napoleon’s chest. He didn’t open his eyes, because he was a coward, and felt far too much guilt to face Illya in that moment.

-

The fourth time Napoleon woke up, he opened his eyes.

Illya was gone.

Napoleon stared at the empty chair dumbly, and then looked around the room. But Illya was nowhere to be seen. Worry popped up in his mind, but Illya was probably just using the bathroom, or eating outside. He would be back soon.

Napoleon stared at the ceiling, and waited.

He fell asleep before Illya came back.

-

The fifth time Napoleon woke up, he nearly died.

That was perhaps an exaggeration. But when Napoleon opened his eyes, Illya was staring at him, his face so close Napoleon yelled and flailed very violently in terror. The heart monitor beside him wailed in alarm at the spike in feedback.

Illya had reeled back, his eyes wide with shock as Napoleon struggled to calm his racing heart.

“Peril… what?”

Illya, curiously, blushed bright pink. But doctors and nurses were already spilling into the room, attracted by the sudden alarm, and there was no time to pursue an explanation.

-

Afterward, they didn’t talk about it, just in case Illya was forced to admit something stupidly endearing like: “I was counting your lashes,” or, “I was wondering if I should just smother you in your sleep.”

Instead, Napoleon sneakily grabbed Illya’s hand at every opportunity, because he had gotten used to the weight of Illya’s warm hands against his. The first few times, Illya stubbornly withdrew his captive limb, before he eventually gave up, and let Napoleon hold it as he read at his bedside. Napoleon always made sure to grin extra wide. The faint twinge of pink and the tiny smile on Illya’s face that always resulted made Napoleon feel that much better.

Napoleon also swore he would take the secret of waking up multiple times without telling Illya to his grave, which meant that just three days after ‘waking’, he accidentally let it slip.

It was dark, and Illya was curled at Napoleon’s bedside again, despite the amount of times Napoleon told him to go home and get some proper sleep. It seemed like both Waverly and the hospital staff had given up on making him leave, and no one tried to shoo the Russian out of Napoleon’s room as dusk slipped into night.

Illya was holding Napoleon’s hand hostage again, lacing their fingers together and then resting almost his entire upper body weight on top of it as he drifted off to sleep. Napoleon was rapidly losing feeling in his arm, and he wiggled the appendage to attract Illya’s attention.

Illya’s eyes blinked open, and he stared sleepily at Napoleon.

“You’re making my arm lose feeling again,” Napoleon grumbled with a frown.

A beat. Illya’s eyes widened, and so did Napoleon’s.  _Oh no._

Illya sat up, and his hand withdrew back into his lap. “Did you just say, again?”

“Did I?” Napoleon stares, innocent. Illya hadn’t done this since he’d woken up. He’d spent the last few nights half sprawled at the foot of Napoleon’s bed.

“You’ve woken up before.”

Napoleon opened his mouth. “Illya…”

“I can’t believe this.”

“Look, I just… I didn’t open my eyes every time I was awake.”

Illya glared at the wall in anger, his chest heaving. Napoleon stared, dismayed, before he shifted, and reached out to grab Illya’s hand from his lap.

The angle was awkward, and Napoleon had to half lean off the bed in order to make it. Illya’s head whipped back in Napoleon’s direction, and he almost shoved his hand at Napoleon when he realised what he was trying to do. Illya stood, and leaned against Napoleon’s bed, just so Napoleon could properly hold onto his hand.

Napoleon’s wound was hurting again, but he had what he wanted. Illya stared at him, a mix of anger and confusion on his face.

“Peril, I’m sorry,” Napoleon said gently. Then he pulled Illya’s hand up, and pressed his lips against Illya’s skin. “I love you too.”

Illya stared at his hand, and the anger in his eyes receded little by little. “You’re not getting away with this that easily, Cowboy.”

This time, it was Napoleon who gripped Illya’s hand tightly, a little afraid to let go.

Then, Illya leant forward, and softly kissed Napoleon, biting his lips once before he drew back.

“I’m going to head home.”

“Illya...” Napoleon moaned, but Illya was already stepping away and gathering his belongings.

“Goodnight Napoleon.”

Then the door was closing behind him, and Napoleon was left alone, staring at the door.

In Napoleon’s defence, he had been perfectly prepared to open his eyes

-

The next night, Illya came back, and Napoleon didn’t so much as mutter when he stopped being able to feel his arm under Illya’s weight.

Everything turned out okay, because Illya kissed him again in the morning.


End file.
